The Adventure of the Reichenbach Skull
by BenedictedCumberbabe221
Summary: Just as Sherlock has found a possible flatmate - John Watson - a strange man in a blue box appears in 221B. The strange man, clad in a pinstriped suit and sneakers (of who Sherlock can deduce little) tells the consulting detective that he's going to die and takes him into the future to aid him in his fate. Originally posted on .


_'Off out,' Sherlock mumbled as he swept gracefully out of the flat and descended the stairs of 221B.  
'Bring back some milk!' John asked, knowing that Sherlock would either ignore or forget the request. In answer, the door slammed. John smirked and shuffled over to his armchair with the laptop in hand. He typed in the password slowly, like a man who still wasn't quite up to date with technology. ''_**Incorrect password, try again.' **_The laptop screen notified him. John frowned, and then remembered that he'd changed the passcode again in a futile effort to block Sherlock from his profile – he might as well quit trying now. He entered the correct passcode in and awaited his profile to load. He decided to write some more cases for his blog. Whilst he was awaiting the screen to load, he looked around the flat. He'd come extremely fond of the flat and its setup. It was a tad messy, but in a sort of likeable way. Upon the mantelpiece sat the skull. It was kind of unneeded now, because John had essentially taken its place. Sherlock didn't talk at __**it**__ anymore, he talked at John. John recalled the first time he had entered 221B and had questioned the presence of the skull. Sherlock had replied, 'A friend of mine…well I say friend…' That was the day the 'Study in Pink' case began.  
John had already asked Sherlock how he'd come by the skull that sat on the mantelpiece, but his questions had always been side-stepped or just downright ignored. John had noted the hole at the back of the skull. The guy had blown his brains out; whoever he was. He would ask Sherlock again sometime. But not before he made Sherlock get rid of the male genitals from the fridge. John hadn't eaten anything out of the fridge for days._

_Returning from his reflections, John noticed the screen had loaded and began to type up his thoughts on the case of the stolen painting – 'Falls of the Reichenbach' by Turner. _

* * *

Amidst the raucous, bustling streets of Central London lay Montague Street. And in a flat on Montague Street lay Sherlock Holmes, sprawled upon his leather sofa, as per the usual when without brain stimulation. From this prime position, he brought his gun level and took a shot at the opposing wall. He smirked in glee as he heard the rushed footsteps of his landlord blundering down the staircase in response.

He took another shot at the wall, narrowly missing a framed painting; not that hitting the painting would be of great bereavement. He didn't even remember how he'd come by that useless tat. Thinking this, he fired a further three shots, causing the glass of the frame to crack and splinter, and the image to shred.

'And those are my thoughts on the subject of unneeded adornments,' he mumbled. It was at this point his landlord burst through the doorway. His face was flushing the shade of beetroot, his eyes bloodshot and his forehead glistened with sweat. It had taken him a few minutes; it was only a two flight staircase, but Sherlock was fully aware what obesity could do to you.

'Ah, Mr Evans,' Sherlock said in his deep, baritone voice. 'Lovely to see you. Your exertion due to descending just _two_ flights of stairs tells me that the diet's not going too well. Pity,' he added, absentmindedly as he studied his gun. Benjamin Evans huffed, his knuckles cracking as he clenched his fists.

'I have had enough of you, I want you out!' he exploded, sending a wave of spittle everywhere. 'I have had it up to here with you firing guns at my wall! Your cutting comments. You _never _pay rent. What's more, you're scaring the wife!'

'Now you mention, Eileen, is she aware of where you were last night Mr Evans?' Sherlock interrupted, looking up at Benjamin with an innocent smile. At this comment, his landlord huffed some more.

'Out! Out! I want you out within the next week!' He was practically screaming. Sherlock thought about whether it was worth causing this man an early heart attack, inevitable though it was.

'Fine,' Sherlock sighed, standing up and stepping lazily upon the coffee table, his blue dressing gown flowing behind him, and strode sluggishly over to Benjamin. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes and it was completely and utterly sarcastic. Benjamin stepped back warily and this movement reminded Sherlock of the gun he was waving so blithely around.

'Oh, don't worry. I used the last on that painting,' he pointed at the shredded piece of artwork hanging limply from the wall with the gun. 'I'll-'

But Sherlock was interrupted by Benjamin driving him out of his way, making way to shuffle over to the painting. He fingered the frame, his mouth gaping in anger and annoyance and disbelief.

'What have you done?!' he seethed. 'You _shot_ my mother's painting!'

'I knew it wasn't mine,' Sherlock said, mostly to himself.

'Of course it's not yours, you prick! It's mine! My mother gave it to me before she died!'

'Then why do I have it?' Sherlock asked, his face scrunching in confusion.

'I left it in here as a bloody decoration,' he bellowed as he unhooked it from the wall and cradled the remains in his arms.

'Well that's your mistake then; nothing to do with me.'

'I wasn't expecting some freaky, idiot to go shooting at it!'

'A freaky idiot didn't shoot it, Mr Evans; I think you're getting a bit confused.' He made to pat his landlord reassuringly on the shoulder as Ben passed, but Benjamin flinched away from his touch, his bloodshot eyes bulging as he glared at him.

'Don't...touch me,' he spat. 'One week. And I never want to see you again Mr Holmes.' He exited, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

Sherlock put his Blackberry Bold to his ear and awaited the motherly voice of Mrs Hudson to answer.

'Hello,' she chirruped down the speaker. Sherlock smiled at the voice.

'Mrs Hudson, its Sherlock.'

'Ooh hello love!'

'I've found myself without a room and was wondering if you could do me a favour. Do you still have the flat going?'

'Ooh yes! Are you wanting it? I'll turn down all the offers, if that's so Sherlock. You can move in as soon as you like dear!' Mrs Hudson said gleefully. Unwilling to get himself dragged into small talk, he concluded the conversation.

'It'd be greatly appreciated. Thank you Mrs Hudson, I'll be around tomorrow to start moving in my things in. Goodbye!'

With that, he ended the call and smirked at the lounge full of bulging cardboard boxes.

* * *

The following day, after Sherlock's possessions had been shifted to Mrs Hudson's flat, Sherlock was situated at St Bart's testing something to help solve a case, when a colleague of his, Mike Stamford, shuffled into the lab.

'G'morning Sherlock. How's things?' he questioned kindly.

'Good,' Sherlock answered simply. Mike let the silence hang, fully aware that silence was the way Sherlock enjoyed working. But Mike liked talking.

'So I hear you've moved into a place on Baker Street?'

'Oh so you've spoken to Molly. But yes, I have,' Sherlock answered vaguely as he peered into the microscope. 'In fact, I'm looking for a flat mate. Even with Mrs Hudson's generous offer, being an unpaid detective does have its financial limits. Fancy it Mike?'

The portly man nodded sarcastically, chuckling. 'Sorry, Sherlock. But I will put in a good word for you if I come across anyone else looking for a flat share.'

'Even with a good word, I don't think many people will want me as their flatmate,' Sherlock uttered, his eyes alive with enthusiasm as he took another glance into the lenses of the microscope. The icy blue eyes suddenly widened as his tests came to be fruitful.

He glanced up at Stamford, gave a small smile and raised a hand in farewell as he said, 'Must dash. Need to call Lestrade and inform him of some developments in a case.'

Mike grinned, gave a small wave as Sherlock exited the lab.

* * *

Sherlock had convened back to 221B, and was lounging upon his sofa once again. Mrs Hudson was out and everything was quiet. Despite his doubt in ever finding a flatmate, Mike Stamford had returned to the lab later in the afternoon, tailed by an ex-army doctor named John Watson. Of course, Sherlock had amazed the doctor with his brilliance, deducing everything as always. Mike had sat there smirking in familiarity of John's situation. But, surprisingly, Sherlock's egotistical ways had not deterred the doctor, and was due to arrive at the flat sometime soon.

Sherlock closed his eyes and thought. Then the quietness was suddenly obliterated, with the churning of a machine. It seemed to be coming from inside 221B, but Sherlock had no idea what it could be. He finalised that the noise must be coming from the neighbours and proceeded to shout, 'Shut up!' at the wall. Bolshily, he rolled over and curled into the sofa. _How dare they disrupt his thinking! _The churning escalated. A small light flashed upon the walls, growing brighter with every wrench of the machine. Suddenly papers were fluttering everywhere. Then the unpleasant noise on Sherlock's ears ceased. He rolled back over to observe something completely improbable, mounted within 221B.  
The battered, blue door of the object opened with a comforting creak. A man stood the other side of the door.  
Now stood, Sherlock looked the man up and down.  
'Who the hell are you?'


End file.
